Divine Glass
by Aquaphobe
Summary: ' Through the fragile glass that linked them to one another, they stood face to face. For the very first time, they saw each other clearly, and what they saw... was themselves. Harry wondered, was this what being the Master of Death truly meant? ' A story of life, death and most importantly, mortality. (DH compliant)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**: I had the sudden inspiration to write this story, and although I know how it starts, I really have no idea where it might take me. This is, however, chiefly a healing/friendship fic – for both Harry and Tom Riddle. The ways in which I plan to do this, while remaining DH compliant, will hopefully become clearer the more this story progresses.

For now the rating is T, though it may be raised at a later date. Updates are likely to be odd lengths and just about as erratic as I am. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** Regrettably, I do not own the Harry Potter series. Nor the quote at the beginning of this chapter – which, conveniently, I found at the very front of my hardback copy of the Deathly Hallows. Nice choice of quote, Ms Rowling.

**Divine Glass**

'_Death is but crossing the world, as friends do the seas; they live in one another still. For they must be present, that love and live in that which is omnipresent. In this divine glass they see face to face; and their converse is free, as well as pure. This is the comfort of friends, that they may be said to die, yet their friendship and society are, in the best sense, ever present, because immortal.'_ – William Penn, _More Fruits of Solitude_

In the very last seconds of Voldemort's existence – or at the very least, what remained of it – his life did not flash before his eyes, as lives are supposedly wont to do.

There was no bright flash of understanding, but for the bright flash of a spell.

There was no sudden epiphany, aside from that which he saw in the intense green eyes of his slayer.

There was not a moment of wisdom, or understanding, or closure.

There, in the last few seconds of his existence, the monster that was known as Voldemort died, and the soul of a broken, beaten, unloved child by the name of Tom Marvolo Riddle, was trapped within a brilliant white light. A stasis that, weaker than ever before – exposed, vulnerable, unmasked – he could do nothing to escape.

All that Tom Marvolo Riddle's shattered, incomplete soul could do was cry out for an end that would never come.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry potter.

**A/N:** And here, at breakneck speed, I present part two:

**Divine Glass**

The storm raged over the city of London, the wind slicing through the streets and sending fat, angry droplets of half-formed hail to batter mercilessly against the building fronts.

Standing as a silent, invisible sentinel alongside its brothers, number twelve Grimmauld Place was not exempt from the rule of British weather. If it weren't for the fact that the tall, intimidating building was imbued with enough magic to make a kneazel do a double take, the stained bricks would probably be crumbling and the rooftop caving in from age and abandonment.

_Sometimes_, Harry Potter thought from beneath the slightly musty covers of his bed as the storm outside raged, and the rickety old building groaned unhappily, _even magic can't make a place feel more welcoming._

He didn't mean that, of course. At least, not entirely.

Grimmauld Place was about as much of a home to him as anywhere else ever would be, in recent days.

It was still dark and haunted, but since the war the shadows seemed to have shifted slightly. He hadn't been _accepted_ by the house, as such – that wasn't nearly the right word, for the building was no more sentient than the Shrieking Shack was beautiful – but he supposed that he was growing accustomed to it.

Besides, now that Harry had righted all misgivings with the only other occupant of the house, Kreacher the house elf was more eager than ever to please. The ancient house was looking cleaner and tidier every day, slowly being restored to its former glory.

Still, the spot on the bed beside him was cold and empty, and Harry longed for the warmth of Ginny's arms to encircle him.

Since the war had ended and they'd all restarted their lives, things for Harry and Ginny had been a little touch and go. Actually, things for Harry and _everyone _had been a little touch and go. To say that some emotional wounds remained wide open, even a month down the line, would be a complete understatement.

The total sum of those lost over the last year of the war was still being tallied up as more and more missing-persons were found and identified, and the whole of wizarding Britain had been left, teetering back and forth on the precipice of post-war desolation. It was a hard time for all involved, and many Death Eaters were still being rounded up, put into Ministry custody and questioned. The Ministry itself seemed to be in the early stages of a total overhaul with Kingsley Shacklebolt at the very head of the movement, and Hogwarts was officially closed until the following September so that safety precautions could be put into action and the necessary repairs could take place. Both Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley were in sorry states, and just about the only thing left in any sense of order was the Daily Prophet – with all the drama and the newly regained freedom from suppression, the newspaper was right back on the track it had been before Voldemort's second rise to power. Sales and subscriptions had skyrocketed since the final battle – especially with the Quibbler (the only other alternative) having yet to be righted from the sorry state it had ended up in.

The long and short of it was that, really, everyone was still reeling from the aftershocks of the war. There were a great deal of broken homes, family conflicts, losses and just general uncertainty. Harry thought of it a little like sheep, without a shepherd. Everyone was ambling along, too terrified (and too oppressed until so recently) to stand up and do anything about it themselves.

Harry had done his part in the war – he had played hero and he had saved them from the evil villain – but now that his key roll was over, he was just a tired, scared seventeen year old boy. He was just the same as every other teenager in the sense that he mourned and fretted and raged, and he just wanted the one simple courtesy of being allowed his time to recover without any pressure for him to do more than that.

He'd originally joined the Weasley's at the Burrow – his home away from home – but, no matter how much they accepted him and wished him to be there amongst their ranks, he felt like he was infringing on their privacy as a family. Their loss of Fred had hit them all hard, and as much as it hurt Harry too, Ron's words from their row before Christmas still haunted him.

Harry wasn't part of a family, as much as he wished to be, and he couldn't fully comprehend their loss. He hadn't known how to comfort Ginny when she'd wept, and so he'd just reached for her and wrapped his arms around her shaking frame, tense and uneasy. He'd never been good with crying girls, and not knowing the right words to say, or the right ways to help her through her mourning made him feel inexplicably guilty.

On top of all that, he was suffering himself. There was only a certain amount of times one could awake, screaming in blind terror and lashing out with volatile, wandless magic, before things became too much. Again, he wasn't the only one left reeling after a particularly vengeful nightmare – it happened to everyone on more than one occasion – but with Harry, it was almost a nightly occurrence. And many times in the aftermath, he'd been practically inconsolable.

He dreamed of the Battle of Hogwarts, mostly – of flashing spells, of falling bodies, of panic and pain. His nightmares were predominantly violent, and it seemed that his mind liked to replay certain memories over and over again. The worst of all was perhaps (oddly enough) Snape, crumpled and dying, dark red rivulets of blood drenching his frail form. It was just a single glance that replayed in his minds eye, and yet it seemed to last a life time – an endless loop of dread and guilt, that built and built like the first crashing waves of a tsunami.

All of his dreams were bearable, to a point. He would still wake up drenched in a cold sweat and on the verge of tears, but it wasn't these dreams that haunted him.

It was when the nightmares reached their climax, and he still didn't awake, that they changed into something different. It was always the same, too: a flash of green light that grew brighter and brighter, until it swallowed up everything. When the brightness reached a crescendo that made his head pound and his heart thump erratically in his chest, everything would just suddenly stop. When Harry would refocus, everything would be white. Just... white. Clean and pure like fresh snow.

And then he'd hear the whimpering and those weak struggling breaths, and for some unidentifiable reason he would be suddenly, overwhelmingly petrified.

_Those_ were the dreams that he woke up from screaming.

It was only after one particularly horrible incident that he'd made up his mind to leave.

Apparently he'd started shrieking, blood curdling cries of anguish, and he hadn't awoken from it himself. Instead it had gone on and on, and he thrashed about like he was under the cruciatus. Ginny had been the first one at his side, and she'd said that she couldn't stand to leave him to surface from such a violent nightmare by himself. So, she'd reached out, laid a hand on his shoulder and shaken him gently.

His eyes had snapped open and, somehow convinced that he was in danger – his mind still stuck in the confines of his dream – he'd sent a surge of uncontrolled magic out, into the space around him, and he'd sent Ginny flying. The sound of the crash and her pained cry had yanked him rather unceremoniously back into reality, but the experience had clearly shaken them both.

_That_ was the deciding factor in Harry retreating from the Burrow, only the lock himself away inside the dark, dank walls of Grimmauld Place.

The thought of his self-induced isolation made his chest ache, and it was with a herculean effort that he pushed the covers off himself and sat up in bed.

He rubbed his dry, stinging eyes – probably terribly bloodshot from his lack of sleep – and clambered off of the sunken mattress, onto wobbly legs. He did his best to ignore the posters on the walls and the trinkets on the shelves that so clearly declared this room to have belonged to his Godfather, and instead shuffled unsteadily out of the door.

If he wasn't going to be able to sleep, he might as well go and do something a little more worthwhile, like grabbing himself a mug of hot chocolate and curling up in front of the massive fireplace.

So much for summer weather.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter still does not belong to me – no matter how many times I check the copyright.

**A/N: **Again, a very quick update. It's because I've been spurred into movement by the favourites, follows and all the lovely feedback. Thank you so much, everyone!

On a side note, I actually wrote most of this chapter when I went into Starbucks for a coffee. I love it there; the people are too polite to come over and ask me to move along – even after three hours! Longest coffee of my life. Does anyone else take shameless advantage of situations like that?

**Divine Glass**

Harry was just beginning to nod off into a very light sleep, long after dawn, when the fire burst into emerald green flames and the long, lanky form of Ronald Weasley came tumbling straight out of the hearth. He landed in a graceless tangle of limbs and surprised cursing on top of an equally startled Harry, who'd been stretched out on the rug in front of the fireplace.

"Bloody hell!" Came a particularly loud oath, as the fire flashed again and Hermione stepped out with far more dignity than her boyfriend had managed.

She just sighed at the proclamation and stepped around the two young men, making towards the door (and from there, Harry assumed, the kitchen) with barely a backwards glance.

As Ron righted himself, offering Harry a hand up from the floor, the dark haired young man sent his best friend a tired, inquiring look.

Ron grimaced slightly, but otherwise shook his head, muttering, "Don't ask, mate. It's just the usual stuff." This behaviour had, indeed, become routine for Hermione over the weeks following the end of the war. Because, while the Light had won and the Order of the Phoenix had been regaled as saviours of wizarding Britain, Hermione had her own problems to deal with – just like everyone else.

It didn't take a genius to know that Hermione wanted to spend time with not only her boyfriend and other friends, but that the poor girl wanted very much to go back to her own family. A family that no longer remembered her.

Although it was difficult to understand his friend's complex thought patterns at the simplest of times (she was a female, after all, and a very bright one at that. The word 'complex' didn't even begin to describe her), even _Harry_ could work out that there were a number of complications involved in this whole situation. Not only was obliviating highly illegal – and counted by many as dark when misused – but non-ministry approved practice on muggles could result in a very long prison sentence. Obviously, the war being taken into account (as well as her status as a best friend of the 'Great Boy-Who-Lived'), Hermione's motives were probably enough to clear her name. There was then the added burden of the media attention currently pinned to them all, which would no doubt blow the entire thing sky high, were it uncovered.

Harry suspected that Hermione was also terrified of the inevitable confrontation with her parents, after restoring their old memories. She was definitely skilled enough to reverse the spell, so that wasn't a problem, but that didn't make anything easier. She probably feared that they would push her away and quite rightfully too, Harry thought ruefully. He wondered if they'd understand that she had just been trying to protect them.

He rubbed absently at the fading lightning bolt scar and trailed out of the room after Ron, barely noticing the redhead's continued muttering – an odd habit that had just started recently, and only then when he was particularly lost in thought, or stressed.

Upon entering the large kitchen, Harry and Ron slumped down into chairs opposite one another, both falling into their own thoughts as Hermione bustled about the cupboards and counter tops. Harry wasn't sure how long they'd been like that, but at some point Kreacher popped into existence, grumbling unhappily at the muggleborn rooting around in his kitchen. Soon the sound of popping fat and spitting oil joined this from over by the large stove, and the smell of fried eggs and bacon permeated the air.

Hermione eventually joined them, perching on the edge of the seat beside Ron's like a nervous billywig. Clearly she'd been shooed away from the cooker by the irate and rather stern old house elf.

Now that Harry pulled himself back to reality (a surprisingly difficult thing to do, these days), he took a closer look at his two best friends.

Ron was off colour and wan looking with dark smudges under his eyes, his face marred by a semi-permanent grimace. His blue eyes were dull, his hair needed a wash and a comb (though Harry would have been a hypocrite to point this out) and his clothes were badly crumpled.

Hermione wasn't in a much better state of affairs. She was paler than Harry'd ever seen her, her eyes were red and her nose was pink – as though she'd been crying – and her already unruly hair was so frizzy that it resembled an owls nest.

Harry knew that he must have looked in just as poor a condition, what with his current sleep deprivation and the way he'd gone off food. His entire body clock was shot to hell, quite frankly.

"The Ministry want to award us Order of Merlins," Hermione said quietly, staring down at her wringing hands. Wordlessly, Ron reached over and took one of her hands into his own.

The silence seemed to ring louder than ever, and Harry supposed that he should be happy for this acknowledgement, but that really wasn't what he'd gone through everything for. As Dumbledore had always said, it was for the greater good. It always had been.

He didn't feel anger at the Ministry's interference, though. He didn't know if he could really feel much at all, just then. He was completely, hopelessly drained.

"D'you suppose there's any chance of just not attending...?" he asked, in a lame attempt at humour. It sounded more resigned and bitter than anything else.

Ron snorted, "Don't think old Shacklebolt would really appreciate that, not with all the work he's doing trying to pull things back together. Dad says he needs all the help he can get, these days." Something resembling determination sparked to life in Ron's eyes momentarily, "And honestly, I sort of agree."

"Ron's right," Hermione said in much more tentative tones, watching for Harry's reaction as though he was an overripe bubotuber pod that might explode at any moment. "To be honest, I don't think we have much of a choice on this one."

Harry just removed his glasses, scrubbed his face with his palms, releasing a gusting sigh. "Do we ever?" He mumbled as he pushed his glasses back on.

Another painfully long stretch of quiet was broken when Kreacher hobbled up to the table and began to set massive plates of full English breakfasts down in front of each of them. Predictably, Ron flew straight at the food, all previous topics of discussion momentarily forgotten in favour of sating his ravenous appetite. Hermione rolled her eyes in a mixture of disgust and amusement, and picked far more delicately at a bit of grilled sausage.

Harry, however, took one glance at the steamy, greasy plate before him and fought down the contents of his stomach, which was very strongly rebelling at the idea of eating just then.

Now most likely looking a little green, Harry surreptitiously nudged his breakfast further away, trying to keep a pained expression from crossing onto his face.

Unfortunately (and rather inevitably) Hermione noticed his failing appetite and sent him a worried glance that made him want to groan in despair.

Here came the mothering.

"Have you been eating properly recently?" She asked, voice still quiet but an edge in her eyes suggesting that she wasn't willing to back down from this discussion.

"Mmm," he murmured noncommittally, suddenly finding the kitchen sink (somewhere over to Hermione's right) fascinating.

"Harry," she warned quietly, and there was a note of concern creeping into her voice.

The dark haired boy huffed in frustration, and grumbled, "Yeah, sort of... Sometimes..."

Apparently that was not a particularly convincing answer. The young witch sitting opposite him seemed to think so as well, though she merely scowled. Instead, she prodded the conversation in a slightly different direction. "Have you been out of the house at all since you got here, Harry?" A shake of his head. Several more probing questions met the same reply, and clearly Hermione was getting rather upset about it all. "And your sleep?" She finally asked somewhat tersely, before softening when she saw him wince, "Are you still having night terrors, Harry?"

A flicker of irritation sparked to life inside of him then. "Night_mares_," he corrected stonily. If there was one subject he felt testy about it was his dreams – they'd always been a bit of a sore point for him, and apparently that hadn't changed with Voldemort's defeat. "They aren't night _terrors_, because that's just stupid. I'm not some traumatised four year old, Hermione."

He didn't look in her eyes, because he knew he'd see pity there – and a great deal of it, at that. "No, you're not. But you are traumatised, Harry," she paused here, giving him a reproachful look as he lifted his head to deny this. When he settled down again, she continued, "We all are. Those who fought in the war, those who saw the blood and the battlefields - even many who didn't - are suffering. It's called post traumatic stress, Harry- and before you cut me off, let me just say that no, it doesn't make you weak or pathetic. It makes you human."

Ron, shockingly, had something to add to this, speaking around a very large mouthful of toast, "Yeah, rather mentally scarred than mentally screwed up like You-Know-Who was, right?"

Harry couldn't help but huff a weak laugh at that. "Still doesn't mean I'm having 'night terrors', whatever they are."

"Then how do you explain waking up screaming and crying while your magic goes mad, then? That's fairly far beyond the usual scope of nightmares, I think."

"You've got to admit that it's not exactly normal, mate," Ron shrugged apologetically.

"Look," Harry interjected tiredly, his previous irritation once again drowned in his weariness. "I didn't mean to hurt her, okay? I just... didn't realise where I was for a little, there." And the guilt was eating away at him without their extra encouragement. He'd never purposely hurt anyone he loved; Ginny least of all.

"I think you scared Ginny as much as you scared yourself," Ron said brightly, apparently seeing humour in the situation. The amused quirk of his lips very quickly transformed into a grimace of pain, when Hermione presumably elbowed him in the ribs.

As Ron was rubbing his side and scowling, his girlfriend regained control of the situation. "She's fine, Harry. Actually, I think that she's really worried and missing you. She knows it was a mistake. We all do," she added that last on gently, for a moment looking as though she might reach across to lay a hand on his arm. She stopped short, though, when her dark haired friend buried his face – glasses and all – in his palms. "We want you back at the Burrow with us. It isn't healthy to be locked up by yourself like this."

Harry's head ached - not right at the front, behind his scar like he'd grown so used to, but instead a constant pounding in his temples, behind his eyes. It didn't help that the rims of his glasses were digging in painfully. "But it isn't safe, Hermione. I'm not safe when I'm like this. Don't... please don't try to deny that."

The frizzy haired brunette snapped her mouth shut with an audible click of teeth, biting back a protest.

"Have you thought about taking some Dreamless Sleep or something? Could help," Ron asked, after taking a huge gulp from the glass of pumpkin juice that Kreacher had set beside him at some point.

"I don't know if that's a good idea..." Hermione put in carefully.

"Why not? It's not like these are visions or anything, and he clearly needs some proper sleep," Ron pointed out, bluntly adding on, "he looks like a Dementor victim." And as an afterthought, "sorry, mate. It's true though."

Harry frowned, shifting unhappily under both of his friends' intent scrutiny. When Ron's words properly registered though, he ventured cautiously, "I hadn't actually considered taking anything for it."

Hermione was clearly thinking fast. "It's not a good idea to take it in regular doses, though... Dreamless Sleep is addictive in large quantities. And besides, it won't get to the root of the problem. As soon as you stop taking it, the dreams will be back again."

"Well, what else do you suggest, then?" he asked in a tone that, had he more energy, might have sounded sullen.

"There's always Occlumency," she tried, though that little idea was stopped in its tracks by the glare that Harry managed to shoot at her. "Well, er, maybe not then."

Ron muttered something that sounded remarkably like, "You only just figured that out, huh? And here I thought you were brainy," earning himself a stomp on the foot from his girlfriend. Apparently, he just didn't learn - not even after seven years of friendship.

The uncomfortable quiet stretched on but Harry, for once, was loathe to end it.

The one who finally cracked was Hermione, "You could always try counselling, Harry."

His eyes narrowed and his glare sharpened. "What?"

She just huffed and stared up at the ceiling, as though asking for patience. "Save me from the pride and ignorance of the male sex," she murmured, presumably to some higher entity. When she looked back at Harry - who appeared to be just a little more offended than the heavily frowning redhead opposite him - she said in louder tones, "look, speaking to a professional could really help. I know there aren't many of them in the wizarding world, and the few that are around probably cost a bomb, but I just can't see how this'll all fix itself."

"Or," Ron said, after the offended silence drew out to unbearably painful lengths, "you could just get some Dreamless Sleep."

Harry thought that sounded a lot more promising than speaking to some stranger about all his problems, quite honestly. Enough people knew about them already, and he didn't need even more publicity when this supposed 'therapist' sold his story on to the Daily Prophet. Besides, the thought of a wizarding counsellor was just plain bizarre - as far as he could tell, psychology was almost entirely a muggle subject. Like science.

"Or I could get some Dreamless Sleep," he echoed his friend in agreement.

"I hear Pomfrey's made Slughorn brew stupid amounts of it, because of all the requests," Ron said conversationally, trying not to look smug that Harry approved of his idea over his girlfriend's. "I can floo you some later, if you want. I'm being sent to Hogwarts to grab some other things for mum anyway, so I might as well get it while I'm there. Save a trip and all."

"Yeah, that'd be great, thanks," Harry said gratefully, a small smile pulling up the corners of his mouth.

"I still don't think it's a good idea," Hermione said quietly, but neither of the boys were willing to listen and she really didn't want to get into an argument about it, so the subject was grudgingly dropped.

Instead, the conversation turned to other things. Quidditch teams, key players and when the season was going to start up again (according to George, who'd spoken to Oliver Wood, the Quidditch teams had decided not to restart matches until early next year - for pretty obvious reasons. Ron lamented noisily about this); going back to Hogwarts to complete the seventh year they'd lost out on; what certain Order members were doing now; recent discoveries of missing persons, and finally, the upcoming Death Eater trials.

"I heard from Percy that the Malfoys are one of the first families going to be tried," Hermione mentioned. Apparently none of them really had much to say on this subject, save an awkward exclamation from Ron about how he hoped things went well - for whom, he didn't actually specify. The Malfoys were a fairly touchy subject - especially after Harry's recent revelation that maybe, just maybe, Draco and Narcissa weren't such evil snakes. Undoubtedly two-faced and nasty, but maybe not evil. He decided to reserve judgement on Lucius, who he really just wanted to hate. Harry wasn't a particularly forgiving person by nature (unless given a good reason to be), and his Griffindor side could only help him so much. He couldn't forgive the Malfoys for their involvement in the war, any more than he could himself for Sirius' death at the end of his fifth year.

Coincidentally though, he put some of the blame for that on the Malfoys, too.

Eventually, they moved back through to the parlour and then around mid afternoon, Hermione and Ron got up to leave. They invited Harry to join them, but this entire encounter seemed to have drained him completely. All he wanted was to curl back up in front of the fire and wait for Ron to pop back through with the Dreamless Sleep.

Saying goodbye to his two closest friends, Harry settled back in the same spot he'd been in when they'd first arrived (the fire having been kept burning throughout the day, thanks to a certain house elf). He listened to the crackle of the logs on the fire, and the insistent drumming of rain against the large window - strange, how he hadn't realised that it was still pouring down until then - and drifted steadily in and out of consciousness.

His dozing was light enough, for now, that the flash of green light and the following whiteness didn't come.

**A/N: **I have no idea why, but I'm incredibly sleepy right now. It was probably all the thinking I've done today. Sorry there was so much dialogue in this chapter – the next will be a lot more eventful, I promise! Also, any mistakes in this are due to me being too sleepy and lazy to pick up on them.

-Aquaphobe


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **All characters belong to J.K. Rowling, as per usual. The plot, however, is entirely my own invention.

**A/N: **This was a hard chapter to write, and I'm still wondering whether I did okay in the end. I don't like asking for **reviews** (who does?), but thoughts/constructive criticism/questions on this chapter would be **very much appreciated**.

Also, sorry for any mistakes. I just wanted to get this out as soon as possible.

**Divine Glass**

Around dinner time – as the rain finally eased into light showers and the sky began to turn a rather pretty shade of pink through the gap in the heavy old curtains – Kreacher apparated into the room, withered arms so laden with snack foods that his bowed legs were shaking from the effort of staying upright. Harry knew that the cranky old elf could have just carried the food in with his magic – and with a lot less strain on his rather aged person – but this was, apparently, the way that Kreacher insisted on doing things for him. Harry found it endearingly amusing, in a manner of speaking. He had the feeling that this was Kreacher's way of making up for all those years he'd been locked away in this rotten old house by himself. He threw himself enthusiastically into his chores, now that he didn't absolutely despise his master, and normally took offense if Harry tried to so much as pour himself a glass of water.

It really was only awkward manners that made Harry shake himself from his dozing and sit up as the plates and bowls of food were neatly arranged on the rug around him. Kreacher grumbled and fretted over not using the table, but never really bothered fussing outright – Harry figured that he didn't actually care quite as much as he pretended to. So, for a while, the dark haired young man picked disinterestedly at a plate of cold cut meats, cheese and crackers, finely sliced sandwiches, carrot and cucumber sticks, and an odd assortment of dips. He didn't dare try the one that looked suspiciously like caviar; he could barely stomach anything as it was, _without_ pushing his luck.

After dinner, Kreacher came in to announce that he'd filled the bath in the master suit so that Harry could wash himself. He did this every night, but only rarely did Harry actually have the energy to ascend all of those stairs. Normally, if he wanted a wash, he used the shower close to Sirius' room. But it had sort of become routine for Kreacher to make an appearance and offer the bath anyway.

"Er, not tonight thanks, Kreacher," Harry mumbled, voice a little hoarse from his weariness, and then the elf bowed and left the room with a resounding pop. A moment later, he returned with a fresh change of nightclothes for Harry to dress in, a glass of icy water and a book with the title '101 Wizardy Reasons not to be Idle'. Sometimes Harry felt that Kreacher was trying to hint at something...

He changed, grabbed the drink and book and, his back and neck aching from lying about on a threadbare rug for the better part of the day, clambered onto one of intimidating, high backed, dragonhide armchairs. Both book and drink went mostly untouched from their place in his lap, Harry instead reliving memories of the war. He got caught in flashbacks a lot of the time nowadays and lots of little things triggered them. Like the feeling of tough old leather against the bare skin of his wrist conjured thoughts of waxy skinned, glassy eyed war victims. The shadows in the corners of the room were Death Eater cloaks until he turned his head completely. A particularly loud crackle from the fire were vicious hexes, curses and jinxes skimming his clothes and flying just clear over his shoulder. He wasn't as jumpy as he had been in the first few days after the final battle, but his imagination still scared him stiff now and then.

It must have been well past the evening and into the night when Ron arrived – probably around ten, though he didn't bother to check – because the light that crept through the curtains was beginning to turn a from shell pink to a deep, wine red.

Harry was just recounting the way that Hagrid had carried him in the final battle, and reminiscing that the dragonhide armchair would have been a lot more comfy if it were made from the same stuff Hagrid's old coat was (he didn't dare consider how odd this train of thought was), when the cosy amber flames turned a nasty emerald green and spat out a rather sooty Ron.

"I swear that even the bloody fireplace is cursed, mate. It really has it in for me," Ron bemoaned once he righted himself, absently patting at the soot all over his crumpled t-shirt.

Harry looked carefully at the fire; his sleep deprived brain wondering briefly if that was actually possible. Then, his common sense caught up with his addled thoughts, and he realised (sort of belatedly, by that point) that it had been a joke. "Oh," he said. "Haha, ha..."

Ron shot him a bewildered look, said, "Err, right, well," dug around in his trouser pocket and pulled out a couple of small potion vials, along with a little bit of lint. "Here's the Dreamless Sleep."

The darker haired boy stood up to take the offered vials, forgetting that he had a glass of water perched precariously in his lap. Before he had a chance to remember, the glass tilted, tipped, and fell with an impressive, bouncing smash on the floor. Not before drenching Harry in the process.

Equally stunned expressions made it onto their faces, and both young men just sort of stared at one another for a moment, shocked and – in Harry's case at least – dripping.

It was inevitable really that as soon as the shock subsided, the hilarity of the situation dawned on them both. Once they'd started laughing, neither seemed able (or inclined) to stop. It was ridiculous, and in reality not at all as funny as it seemed, but before long both boys were in hysterics.

Ron was doubled over, one hand clasping his knees and his entire head – neck, ears and all – the colour of a ripe tomato. Just as they were, (for all intents and purposes) calming back down again, the lanky redhead tried to speak. What came out of his mouth wasn't helpful at all. "Water," he gasped, "looks like— looks like _pee_!"

That, of course, only set them off again.

Having fallen back into the chair, Harry buried his face into the arm and beat at the surface with one hand – the other clutching his aching side. He was vaguely aware of the tears of mirth rolling down his cheeks. "Ow," he wheezed between painful laughter, "can't, can't stop. It hurts."

"_Pee,_" Ron enunciated a second time, almost keeling over with the force of his bellowing amusement.

"I really _will_ in a— in a minute!"

This went on for a good while longer.

"So... so funny," Ron put in eventually; this time when he spoke, he definitely seemed to be regaining his control.

Harry just nodded into the arm of the chair as the last of his laughter wore off, glasses so wonky that they were digging uncomfortably into the bridge of his nose. _It's strange_, he thought distantly and he reached up and pulled them off. After setting the glasses aside, he reached his hand up and wiped the fingertips across his cheeks. When he brought it away, he didn't need his glasses on to know that his fingers were wet.

_I can't stop crying._

It wasn't noisy or obnoxious, or anything else. He wasn't sobbing or wailing, and his breath wasn't uneven either. The tears just wouldn't stop coming.

Harry supposed that he should have been upset about something to be acting this way, but he was completely separate from the emotion; apathetic to the fact that he, a seventeen year old male, was crying his eyes out over nothing.

His ribs ached from laughing, his temples and eyes throbbed and his lower half was soaked through, but... inside, he felt nothing but the quickly fading humour of the situation.

Unable to look away from his blurry hand, (and unable to stop thinking, _what the heck is wrong with me? Why do I feel so empty?_), Harry didn't notice the long, awkward look Ron shot at him.

He was barely aware of his friend's shuffling, or the way the redhead made a quick escape through the door, saying something along the lines of, "Er, right, well... I'll just go and- and get Kreacher then. To clear this up."

And then Harry was alone.

It was horrible, in a very cut off sort of way – not the being alone part, but the _feeling_ alone. It was like looking down on a very unnerving scene and knowing what was wrong to a certain degree, but having absolutely no understanding as to the reasons _why_.

Why did he feel like this so often now?

What was wrong with him that made him so... so _weak_?

How was it, that after everything he'd gone through, it was only starting to affect him now?

He supposed that it was just irony at play; now that the worst was over and there was nothing left for him to worry about – now that (the dubious) order was returned to the wizarding world – their saviour finally cracked from the pressure.

Wasn't it odd how it wasn't the pressure being _added_ that cracked him, but rather the pressure being taken off? He didn't know what that said about him as a person, but that strangely controlled, analytical part of his head was saying that it probably wasn't very good.

Even Kreacher popping into existence and tutting over the mess did nothing to draw him out of the dark recesses that his mind had crawled down into.

A short while later, a hand landed on his shoulder. "Well," his best friend declared unnecessarily loudly, obviously trying to ignore Harry's current emotional dilemma. "I'm just gonna— just gonna go now."

Harry didn't even really register the redhead's goodbye, though he did call vacantly after him, "Thanks for the Dreamless Sleep..."

Harry didn't mind that Ron had left him alone. Harry himself found it weird trying to deal with _girls_ when they cried, let alone other guys. That sort of thing was supposed to be private. No guys talked about crying over anything – not seriously, at least – and he wasn't about to blame Ron for leaving. Actually, it would've been unbearably painful for the redhead to try and console him about all his pent up emotions.

That would be about as successful as an augurey telling a phoenix that they needed to sing a cheerier song. Though Harry was perhaps a little more like a fwooper than a phoenix, in this situation.

_Yeah, completely bloody mental_, he thought to himself.

...

He wasn't sure how he got there, but before he knew it he was up in Sirius' room, the covers tucked in around him as he stared up at the ceiling. He vaguely recalled Kreacher prompting him to get up and moving, but the journey to bed was pretty hard to recall.

One minute he'd been downstairs, crying like a twelve year old girl, and the next he'd been in bed, cheeks dry and eyes itchy and sore. He'd hadn't thought that his headache could get much worse, but he'd been wrong.

He hated crying.

"Master?" The quietly croaked title was a little bit of a surprise to Harry, but he just tilted his head to the side and stared blearily at the wrinkled, haggard old house elf standing by his nightstand. "Weasley brought potions for Master to take."

"Where're my glasses?" he asked absently, thoughts out of sync with his body.

"Kreacher has put them on Master's bedside table, with Master's wand," he muttered with seemingly endless patience.

"Oh," was all he could say.

"The Weasley one is saying that Master should drink his potion to help with sleep," Kreacher prompted again, when it became clear that Harry wasn't going to respond to his first attempt.

By way of communicating that he understood, Harry pulled himself up so that he was propped against the headboard and held his hand out to the elf. Unsurprisingly, he procured one of the little vials from the folds of his pillowcase clothing and dropped it carefully into Harry's hand.

As he pulled it closer to his face and squinted, inspecting the swirling purple sheen with his poor eyesight, Harry felt something inside of him relaxing a little.

_None of those dreams tonight, then,_ he thought in relief.

Lips quirking up a little in the corners, he stared down at the old elf and said, "Thanks, Kreacher. Dunno how I'd do anything without your help."

It might have been his imagination, but he was almost certain that Kreacher's puckered little face darkened by several shades until in was a dark green. He proceeded to bow so low that his crooked nose touched the floor and the hair sprouting from his ears tickled his cheeks, and then apparated with a _pop_.

Uncorking the potion, Harry raised it to his lips and, ignoring the rather unpleasant taste, swallowed it all in one go.

Grimacing mildly, he dropped the empty vial on the nightstand and fumbled for his wand, whispering, "_Nox._"

Harry let his eyes slip shut without any resistance, for the first time in almost a month not worrying about the nightmares.

...

_When the flash of cold, terrifying green came this time, followed by the blinding white, for some reason Harry just felt resigned to it._

_Apathetic._

_It was inevitable that something was wrong with the potion, what with his bad luck. His track record for unwittingly landing himself in trouble was unprecedented. Especially when he was trying his best to avoid it. Once again, cruel irony was at play._

_Feeling oddly lucid considering it was a dream, Harry kept his eyes shut – the fact that he had eyes at all dawned on him only then – and just let himself drift in the surprisingly soft white glow. Why had he never realised how relaxing this place was, before now?_

_And then he was reminded of exactly why:_

_It was the whimpering again – that horrible, heart wrenching sound that was somehow so much worse than outright screams or shrieks. It was the sound of someone that had screamed themselves raw – had panicked and fought and failed to get free from their fate – and had long since given up hope. There was no life in the sound. It was just a plea to stop the pain._

_Stomach sinking like a balloon filled with lead, Harry wondered why the dream wasn't ending. Usually, he woke up by now._

And usually_, a rather snarky little voice (sounding very much like Professor Snape) pointed out. _You're just about ready to start shrieking, by now_._

_Unable to deny this fact, Harry tried feebly to push his way back to consciousness. When he realised that, not only was his attempt not working, but the whimpering seemed not echo a little louder in his mind, he gave up fighting._

_Harry opened his eyes. A very familiar mist greeted him._

_It wasn't a mist that hid anything (for he was suddenly very certain that it couldn't hide _anything_ from him, even if it _had_ wanted to) but it was rather more like the mist had yet to form into his surroundings._

_Harry stayed there like that for a very long while, staring up into the cloudy vapour and feeling a great wash of nostalgia._

_The second that the large glass dome began to form overhead, Harry knew exactly where he was._

"_King's Cross," he whispered aloud. His voice was blank. He was in King's Cross station again. He was in the place between life and death._

_It was around then that Harry noticed that he was lying down on a floor that was neither warm nor cool, but was otherwise very comfortable, as far as floors went._

_He also came to the realisation that yes, he was naked. Harry didn't need to reach up for his face to know that he was without his glasses, too. And yet his vision was perfect._

_A rasping breath, feeble and weak, sounded from very near by. Harry sat up from the floor extremely slowly and revelled in the fact that he was free from tiredness: free from all his aches and pain._

_He still felt fear, though, and it was more fear than he'd felt in the last seven years of his life. It was unprecedented and it rose, crashing into him like a tidal wave when that broken, fractured little voice moaned its pain._

_Unable to stop himself, his eyes searched for the source of the sound, and sought out where the thing lay, curled in on itself and crying, beneath a bench. Just where it had been the first time around._

_Harry was terrified, there was no doubt about it, but he couldn't have stopped himself from wanting – no, _needing _– to help if his life depended on it. It was like a magnetic pull was forcing him to his feet and making him step closer._

_Closer and closer, until he was only a few steps away._

_Some intrinsic part of Harry knew that this time, he was alone with it. Dumbledore would not be there to stop him from reaching out, and he certainly couldn't stop without his mentor to guide him away._

_It was as if he were under the imperio, (or maybe on autopilot) as he crouched down and peered in pity and horror and disgust at the poor thing._

_It was a child – that much he had known already – and its bare skin was lashed open, whip-like welts tearing into it and exposing muscles, veins and bones. Its limbs were frail and thin, its stomach concaved and its spine protruding from its back: starving. The child shuddered, clearly in agony._

_It was then that Harry was overcome with the incredible need to reach out and touch it. To reach out and pull the tiny, pitiable thing into his arms._

_His fingers flexed towards it, and it was only then that he rebelled. The thing was horrifying and he was appalled with himself for being so scared of it, but he couldn't help himself. So, he hesitated._

_He was speaking before he realised it, "Are you alright?" He murmured soothingly, though it was really rather clear that the tiny little thing was not. "Can you hear me? I'm here."_

_A louder noise came from the child, and with a great effort it shifted. Barely healed wounds reopened all over it as it uncurled and rolled onto its back. Blood started to pour from every scratch and cut, and the little face was unrecognisable beneath the rivulets of red pouring from a jagged cut on the child's forehead._

"_Oh God," Harry groaned, covering his mouth with a hand as his stomach rolled at the sight. How was it possible for such a tiny body to hold so much blood? When the face scrunched up and in a silent sob of pain, Harry's heart lurched. "Shh, it's alright, it'll be alright. I'm not gonna leave you here. Just... just don't move."_

_But the child did, its head tilting in Harry's direction and its eyes slowly opening, squinting and bleary as though it was staring up at the sun._

_Eyes that were such a dark grey, they were almost black, met emerald green._

_Recognition shot through Harry with such strength that he physically shook._

Tom Riddle.

_The child was Tom Riddle._

"_Tom," he whispered, voice breaking a little. The child jolted and trembled, his torn up lip quivering and his eyes going wide at the sound of his name._

_And just like that, Harry's hesitancy and fear disappeared. He'd always had a 'saving people' thing, and this child was not the same as the evil monster he had become later in his life. This, he knew intrinsically. This tiny three or four year old boy was not dangerous. Here, he was just a hated, abandoned, misunderstood child – barely more than an infant – and he was alone. Harry didn't care what Dumbledore had said; even if he _couldn't_ help, he was still going to try. He didn't know how _not_ to._

_Harry reached forwards and wrapped his hands around the child's frail, prominent ribs, somehow knowing that this wouldn't hurt him. He pulled the child out from under the bench carefully and when he was met with no resistance, he pulled the delicate body against his still bear chest._

_The second he was holding the child, Tom started to cry: really, truly cry. Huge, fat tears fell against his shoulder and loud, resounding sobs rung through the empty station. Harry couldn't bring himself to care about all the tears and the blood, though._

_His heart constricted, and suddenly that emptiness in his chest filled up with the anguish, loneliness and desperation of an unloved child._

_The part of his soul that had been hollow since the loss of Voldemort's eighth horcrux opened to Tom Riddle, recognising what was left of the boy as its missing piece._

_Feeling the child's emotions wash over him like they were his own, Harry held the boy tighter to his chest and let his stinging eyes slip shut._

_And with that, Harry slipped away into a deep, deep sleep: never letting go of Tom as he went._

**A/N: **once again, please leave a review for this chapter. I can't say why this chapter was so hard for me to write, but it was certainly emotionally draining. Poor, poor little Tom... /crawls off to cry/

-Aquaphobe (29/08/13)


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